


The Keeper

by Skittles_Walters



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: 3000 words of woe to justify one hug, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst for everyone, Episode: s05e14 In Purgatory's Shadow, Episode: s05e15 By Inferno's Light, Fluff and Angst, Internment Camp 371 (Star Trek), M/M, Star Trek: Just in Time Fest, Tain death, Time muddled, all getting a bit much, desperate hug, genetic augment, how long have i been here, probabilities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-14 16:07:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29048898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skittles_Walters/pseuds/Skittles_Walters
Summary: In solitary there are so many disquieting trains of thought that he simply cannot close his eyes. How they’re faring in the barracks with their one doctor snatched away; whether Tain’s plan has a snowball’s chance in hell of working and what violations the operative they’ve certainly left in his place on the station has already committed.To occupy himself, Bashir runs calculations until he arrives at a 27.3% chance of their escape. Then he thinks of sharp blue eyes and quicksilver quips and cracks that flow between them like volleys at a tennis match, and rounds his figure to 31.7.Vignettes from Julian Bashir’s POV during “In Purgatory’s Shadow” and “By Inferno’s Light”Written for the Star Trek: Just in Time Fest
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 22
Kudos: 78
Collections: Star Trek: Just in Time Fest





	The Keeper

Broken bones, contusions and lacerations are the most common injuries Julian Bashir has had to treat thus far, and the only dermal regenerator in Internment Camp 371 broke down before he arrived. He’s always blithely maintained that he went into medicine so he’d have that incredible knowledge of how to _fix_ people, but now, cruel irony, he’s an abundance of knowledge but none of the tools with which to turn it into cure.

Stubble prickles under his chin; he chafes at it irritably in the darkness, shifts on the chilly floor grille. His hair tickles at the back of his grimy collar. Strange how he never notices it in the barracks, where there are so many things to think of that even a mind like his is perpetually full. Patch up Martok, who, despite his best efforts, comes apart at the seams a little more after each bout; stabalize Tain far enough to get him on his feet and back within the walls.

Bashir’s jaw aches from where they struck him.

_I need blood thinners and statins, atorvastatin if you’ve got it; and quickly, he doesn’t have long –_

Deyos had curled his lip. _Not possible._

_Without medication he’ll certainly die_ – but Deyos had already turned away.

_Ikat'ika, show him what happens to guests who complain about the amenities._

Their poky cooler doesn’t have room for his long limbs to extend: Bashir shifts again, testily.

He should try to rest. Any competent physician can cope with sleep deprivation, but these days exhaustion grips right down to his bones. There are so many disquieting trains of thought that he cannot close his eyes. How they’re faring in the barracks with their one doctor snatched away; whether Tain’s plan has a snowball’s chance in hell of working and whether the man himself clings stubbornly on; and what violations the operative they’ve certainly left in his place on the station has already committed. Considering that last has him hyperventilating in microseconds.

He can never tell how long he’s been stuck in here.

To occupy himself, Bashir tucks numbing fingers under his arms and chews his lip until he’s calculated a 27.3% chance of their escape. It takes his mind off the throbbing at his jaw. Then he thinks of sharp blue eyes and quicksilver quips and cracks that flow between them like volleys at a tennis match, and rounds his figure to 31.7.

.:I:.

Usually this is Bashir’s job. Close their eyes, cover their face, input the time of death into the computer and offer whatever platitudes will bear up their loved ones until they shuffle from the infirmary and he can make out and file the death certificate. It’s his least favourite part of the job but of course he does it well, and while it’s not exactly within protocol, he often offers a long arm across the shoulders when it seems it will be gratefully received.

Here, though, Elim Garak is the one to bring the blanket up over Julian’s former patient’s face. Hell of a place to die for a man like this: the cream of the Obsidian Order, rich as Croesus with a sombre gothic palace on the Arawath Colony, breathing his last in a dim barracks where the air is thick with the fug of unwashed bodies.

Bashir’s fingers twitch: he wants to offer his arm and some meaningless platitudes, tell his friend that even though he’s hardly ready to cross swords over literature and luncheon, he’s so pleased he’s here it’s like a little warmth nursed inside him.

_You’re not my son_.

Bashir thinks better of it.

.:I:.

Four weeks, Worf says, since the burn treatment conference on Meezan IV. Bashir has so lost track that at first he hadn’t believed him.

Internees are free to move about the compound as they wish but the moment they step beyond the dome they will die. Garak stands before the only window that offers a glimpse of stars and the view is spectacular, rivalling the one of the wormhole from Upper Pylon 2.

Despite everything, even Garak’s now-clear-as-glass hint from years ago ( _they called us the sons of Tain_ indeed), Bashir had never worked up this particular probability. But then that’s him exactly, he thinks with a ragged breath: percentages calculated to a hundred decimal places and utterly blind to what’s going on in front of his nose. He should consider it an honour enough that Garak let him stay to hear the fact revealed at all, but it’s one thing to have tantalising hints that your dining partner is more than he appears, quite another to have him openly admit to “taking care of” five people to a man who was utterly without mercy.

Now that Tain no longer requires care and they’ve a concrete escape plan, Bashir has so much more time to _think._

There’s a definite hunch across his friend’s shoulders and a tight set to his jaw. It’s radiating off him that he wants to be alone, and he ought to leave Garak to his grief, but Julian cannot help it – he has to _know_.

“Garak? Are you all right?”

When his shoulder stiffens at Julian’s touch he should have known to back away.

“No, doctor. I did not notice.”

Bashir lifts his chin sharply. “I beg your pardon?”

“I did not notice your replacement on Deep Space Nine by your doppelganger.” Garak inclines his head: a shallow bow. “That’s what you came to ask, after all.”

For the first time Bashir is positive his friend has been utterly truthful, and yet it does not in the least feel the way he imagined it would. He removes his hand.

“I suppose we hadn’t been spending much time together of late. You were rather occupied with Ziyal’s company, as I recall.” _Really, you’re doing this_ now _?_

“Ah, forgive me for seeking another dining partner while you and the Chief devoted your free hours to the holosuites.” He tilts his head. “Miss Molly and her mother have been spending a good deal of time in the shops on the Promenade of late, including my own. I do believe she misses her father.”

.:I:.

“How are things in the ’interrogation chamber’ today?”

“Why, impeccable as ever. Reconfiguring these circuits comes as easily as drawing out confessions. It may take a little prodding, a little modification, but they all yield in the end.”

Bashir swallows. The tool they use to pry off the panel digs uncomfortably into his thigh. He’s perched on the bunk that was formerly Tain’s and Garak has claimed for his own, apparently because it had no “cloying mammalian stink” on it.

Julian tells himself he’s here to do what Julian Bashir does best: help someone. Garak’s current quarters are hardly pleasant, so he’s been talking to him to take his mind off things: offering a little of their usual repartee. He wants to trade barbs and jibes as though they’re across the table in the replimat, but his friend speaks so brazenly of his unsavoury past that Julian’s growing nauseated: nothing about Enabran Tain’s son is in any way familiar.

“Worf will be thrilled to hear it.”

Bashir’s hands are tingling and there’s numbness around his lips but he will not, will _not_ let his breath come too fast. It’s getting harder to think up distractions to keep his mind from places it shouldn’t go: that thing working in his office, sleeping in his _bed,_ in his infirmary with license to replicate substances that in the right hands could wipe out the entire station –

There’s a crackle of sparks, a muttered oath that doesn’t translate and Bashir’s on his feet –

“Garak, are you all right?”

“Only startled. This light is not the most reliable.” But Bashir can hear in his breathing that he’s rattled, and that will have his pulse racing and blood pressure climbing – he grabs the tool from under the mattress.

“Take five minutes – it won’t make much difference in the long run –”

“No, thank you, my dear doctor, I am quite recovered. And as scintillating as your company is, I think I had better concentrate. Perhaps you ought to attend to Worf.”

“Five minutes, Garak, please –”

“Do you know,” Garak continues as though he had not spoken, “a brisk electric shock was the way we’d often start in an interrogation – show the subject just what would happen if they did not co-operate. No permanent harm done and it was an efficient way to begin proceedings. Let me tell you about it, my dear doctor–”

Bashir decides, as he turns and heads for the doors, that the probability now sits at 29.4% and is falling with each passing day.

.:I:.

Bashir can hear the grunts and insistent tone of the pulses from the combat ring even as he walks away. Everyone else has remained to watch Worf’s fifth bout, even the Breen, and really he ought to stay close so he can provide the inevitable care once it’s all over, but he could feel his breath starting to hitch in his throat as he stood there, and couldn’t have Worf see that. His fingers shake, but as always, when they must tend to a patient their steadiness will be back: it’s only now, when he’s not needed, that he can’t _control himself_.

23.6% this morning.

If he lets anything happen to Worf what in the world is Jadzia going to say?

The stink strikes the back of his throat the moment he enters the barracks – he swears it’s worse every time he walks through the doors – and he’s forced to cover his mouth. It’s therefore a few moments before he notices that Garak is not hidden in the crawlspace, nor is he perched delicately upon the edge of the bunk as they left him, but sits on the floor with his back against the wall. Bashir frowns, panic momentarily forgotten.

“Garak? What’s the matter?”

“You were the one who mandated a break, doctor,” he says without looking up. “You did not specify how I must spend it.”

Garak had acquiesced at last because they all, even Martok, agreed it was necessary. Since Julian’s decree he’s been pricklier and more snappish than ever, and now Bashir has done it again: Garak had probably expected a little rare privacy until after the fight and he’s gone and stuck his nose right where it isn’t wanted.

“I suppose not. How goes it?” He nods to the wall.

And there is another thing Julian has missed: his friend is acutely claustrophobic and operating under severe strain. On Deep Space Nine he would issue an immediate cessation of duties to anyone in Starfleet or the militia; recommend Garak some tranquilizers and a few days off. But, of course, they are not on the station, and those thoughts bring his head immediately to what in fact _is_ on the station, perhaps in his office right now… He brushes a hand across his face, quick, to dispel the idea.

“Shall I tell you charming stories, doctor? My work leading to a daring escape that could be pulled off only by the likes of the characters you and Chief O’Brien portray?”

Julian can’t, at present, bring himself to rise to the bait, and simply shrugs. “I have every faith. If anyone can get us out of here, it’s you.”

“You lie very prettily, my dear.”

To someone pumping blood on the biobed faster than they can replenish it: _It’s all right, you’re going to be fine_. “Comes with the territory, I suppose. Shall I stay?”

Garak inclines his head: ever polite. “As you like.”

He turns to go after all, not sure where – the rest of the compound is hardly the place for naked panic and he’d rather die than let the Jam’Hadar or the Vorta see, but there are out-of-the-way corners everywhere, it’s just a matter of looking –

“I apologise, doctor. That was unkind.” When he looks up there’s an odd expression on Garak’s face and he beckons. Bashir hesitates. “Please.”

He’s so tired.

Muffled pulses whine from the combat ring. Sitting against the wall there’s not room for him to stretch out his legs without hitting the little steel table, so his knees are practically under his chin. In the half-light he can tell that his friend is breathing a little fast; his pulse too high for a body at rest, but what exactly can Bashir do about it? Silence spreads between them until he can stand it no longer.

“Well, how are you? After – well, everything.”

“Ah, concerned that if I slip far enough I will be unable to finish my task?”

Bashir shrugs, resting his head on his knees: he can’t stay still. “Concerned about you, as it happens.” Despite being essentially no-contact with his own parents, he can’t know how it feels to lose one, even one like that. _Remember that day in the country?; it was the_ only _day_. Garak’s face is unreadable; Julian braces for another barb.

“I suppose that’s – most kind, doctor.” There’s a pause, and then a cool hand runs across his jaw, under his ear where the skin is yellowed and tender, and Bashir starts, frowning. “Is it true?” says Garak. “They did this because you insisted on medicine for Tain?”

Julian had peered at the spot in the reflection on the chrome tabletop, not used to seeing bruises allowed to form and blacken and fade.

“Yes.”

“That was pointless. He had completed his task by then and was of no further use to you.”

Bashir shrugs. “He was my patient. I had to try.”

Garak smiles faintly in the dimness. “And look where it got you. Your second spell in solitary, Martok says? I hope it was worth it.” He’s not quite sure, but there seemed to be something of the familiar Garak in that expression: certainly in the chiding. He draws his head away, smiling.

“I hold to my principles and you hold to yours.”

“I never knew my friend was such an unrepentant imbecile.” Garak reaches to brush a speck off Julian’s sleeve. Bashir laughs: his uniform – which Garak had been pleased to point out was now utterly outmoded – is more stain and tear than anything these days.

“If I’m such an imbecile then why did you let me stay with you and Tain at all?”

“Perhaps I merely wanted a witness. Someone else to know of the former head of the Obsidian Order’s misdeeds.”

“Oh really?”

“Hmm.” Garak quirks an eyeridge, sighs, and looks away. “He was my father. I suppose, despite everything, you are only ever given one.”

_Father, father, you’re dying._ A moment later they were back to “Enabran” and “Elim”.

“Well, as much as I enjoy being free, I believe my break is coming to its close. Stay, though, if you wish.”

Bashir opens his mouth to speak, to ask if Garak is sure when there’s a louder roar from the combat ring and his leg jerks up of its own accord, nearly catching Garak in the side. After a long, long moment where they both raise their heads to listen there’s the whine of a pulse. Bashir presses his hands together; laces the fingers tight. He’d forgotten the bout.

“Are you cold, doctor?”

He shakes his head. “What do you think it will be this time? An eye, like Martok, or something else I can’t _fix_?” He rubs hard as his chin, but can hardly feel the stubble. “If Worf goes on much longer he’ll have lifechanging injuries that no amount of surgery will do anything for even if we _do_ manage to get away.”

“Doctor –”

His lips are numb. “If I can’t help them then what is the damn _point_ of me –”

“ _Julian_ ,” Garak catches his arm, “do not concern yourself with such things. As always, you will cope as best as could be expected of any human under the circumstances.”

“Garak –”

He presses suddenly in with his fingers until Julian gasps: tomorrow, there will be another darkening bruise to muse over. “You, my dear, in fact excel at anything you turn your hand to. I would go so far as to say _uncannily so_.” Julian’s so far gone he’s nodded jerkily to accept the compliment before he realises what Garak has said.

If he had not felt it before he feels it now: his pulse pick up, pupils dilate and skin flush as blood is directed precisely where it needs to go so he can turn and fight-or-flight. His friend’s mouth forms a languid smile. “Come, doctor. You’ve learned _my_ secret: what am I to do to even the score?”

He’d thought more stress wasn’t possible but _this:_ the end of everything: his career, Starfleet –

Can Garak _know_? _How_ could Garak know?

“My dear doctor, whatever is the matter?”

In the course of his career he’s seen almost every body part bared of its flesh: muscles and tendons and subcutaneous fat open to the elements, but he’s never himself felt _flayed_. He slumps against the wall with his chin on his knees. There’s nowhere to go.

Garak runs his fingers from Julian’s arm to his jaw again, then upwards to thread idly through his hair. “What was it that I told you, doctor? ‘Sentiment is the greatest weakness of all’?”

When Julian ends up against that stocky, sturdy frame, he’s not quite sure who made the invitation. There’s a wool tunic touching his cheek that prickles sharply, and he feels sick and raw, ears ringing and stomach churning. Cool fingertips smooth over his ruined uniform. Garak is warm and solid and smells of hot metal and melted plastic; the hand on his neck could probably snap it before he had the chance to shout. But Julian’s arms fit just so around his friend’s back.

He smirks against Garak’s shoulder. What does it matter if he should know Julian Bashir’s greatest secret anyway? There’s a 68.9% chance that he’ll never have the opportunity to tell anyone.

\---

  
Inspired by this supremely evocative piece of artwork by S.J. Miller. Embedded with permission. 

**Author's Note:**

> Description of Chez Tain borrowed from Arati_Mhevet’s “Wish You Were Here”, with kind permission.
> 
> To Arati_Mhevet and her taciturn sidekick: eternal thanks for all the help, which made such a difference!


End file.
